The Spirit of the Season
by Beetlebum101
Summary: One-Shot. Bella Swan volunteers at a retirement home and when her favourite resident begins acting strangely one Christmas Eve, she gets unknowingly pulled into a family's tragic past with surprising consequences.


**The Spirit of the Season**

"Merry Christmas!"

"What's that?" The old woman asked, turning her face towards me.

"I SAID, MERRY CHRISTMAS, ESME!" I shouted again, even louder, right beside her ear. It was still a few days early but the more I said it, the more likely it was to register. Esme smiled kindly and raised a wrinkled hand.

"Oh, no, thank you, Rose, dear. You know I don't like peanuts."

I sighed. Old Esme Cullen suffered from dementia, not to mention acute deafness, and she was a relatively new resident at the retirement home. I had been working here in a voluntary capacity for nearly a year and while I was fond of all the residents, Esme had become my favourite. Spending time with her almost felt like spending time with my own grandmother.

I really wished she would stop calling me, 'Rose,' though. My name is Bella.

Esme had returned to her knitting and I simply sat and watched her for a few minutes; the clicking of the needles was almost hypnotic. The old woman hummed a tune to herself as she worked and it made me smile. It was so easy to feel sorry for someone in her position but, within herself, Esme seemed incredibly happy and exuded that happiness to those around her. It was quite remarkable.

"I have to go," I said loudly, resting my hand on her arm. "But I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

"Hmm?" She responded, blankly.

"I'll be back tomorrow!"

"Alright, dear," Esme said, before reaching up and touching the side of my face. "Have a good day at school."

I felt a lump in my throat and tears stinging behind my eyes as she smiled a sweet, motherly smile at me. I swallowed it back and simply nodded, watching as Esme once again went back to her knitting. I quickly gathered my things and made my way to the staff area, hoping to gather myself before I signed out.

I fell into one of the chairs around the faux-wood table, which was strewn with various forms and paperwork, and took a few deep breaths.

"Bella, is everything okay?"

I hadn't even heard Jacob come into the room and the sound of his voice startled me. My heart rate accelerated and I rested my hand on my chest, sighing.

"Jake, you scared me," I said, smiling slightly. "And, yeah, everything is fine."

"Right," he replied, sceptically, as he made his way over to me. "That's why you look like you're about to cry." He sat himself down and linked his fingers together on top of the table, obviously waiting for me to confide in him.

Jacob was one of the full-time carers and had been for many years – ever since his own father had lived and died here.

I sat right back in my seat and ran a hand through my wavy, brown hair. "Can I ask you something about one of the residents?" Jacob nodded so I continued. "It's about Esme Cullen."

"What about her?" He asked, frowning slightly.

"Does she have any family? A daughter? A granddaughter, maybe?"

"Not that I'm aware of," he replied, scratching at his stubble. "She had a husband but he died about a year ago; that's why she's here. The only visitors she gets are the volunteers, like yourself." He stared at me for a moment before speaking again. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just…" I trailed off for a moment and leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. "She keeps calling me, 'Rose,' and I thought maybe she was confusing me with a family member."

Jake reached over and took my hand, a sad smile on his face. "Mrs. Cullen has dementia, Bells. If Santa Claus came to visit her she'd probably call him, 'Rose,' too."

He tried to placate me but all I could manage was a tight lipped smile. It was true she was unwell but the way she interacted with me was very motherly and she didn't call anyone else, 'Rose,' just me. There had to be a reason.

"Esme is happy here; a lot of the other residents aren't," Jacob continued, releasing my hand. "We can at least be grateful for that."

I knew he was right; so many of the residents here looked tired and haggard and seemed to be simply waiting for inevitable. Esme, on the other hand, wasn't like that at all. Still, I couldn't help thinking there was more to this mysterious, 'Rose,' than Jake thought.

"You're right. Thanks Jacob," I said with a smile, before getting up off the chair and lifting my coat from the hook on the wall. "I gotta get home."

"See you tomorrow?" He asked, as he stretched in his seat.

"You sure will," I replied, adjusting my scarf around my neck. "Have a good night."

The sharp December air hit me the second I stepped outside, like Jack Frost scratching his icy fingertips across my skin. I shivered and my breath misted in front of me as I reached into my pocket, taking out my gloves. An unexpected clattering noise drew my attention and I saw my iPod lying in a puddle of water, having just fallen out of the same pocket my gloves were in.

"Aw, _seriously_?" I groaned, bending down to retrieve my now ruined device. With a sigh of annoyance I shook the water off it as best I could and shoved it back into my coat, knowing that I couldn't afford to buy a new one. "Just my luck," I mumbled to myself, beginning the short walk home.

It took less than ten minutes to walk from the retirement home back to my apartment but in the cold weather it always felt twice as long as that. I pulled the collar of my coat tighter around my neck as I turned into my street, feeling suddenly like someone was walking directly behind me. Without stopping, I slowly craned my head round to check but there was nobody there. Just darkness. _It was probably just a cat or something…_

Nevertheless, I picked up the pace and thought warm thoughts until I reached the safety of home.

* * *

The next day was Christmas Eve and after calling my dad to confirm our plans for tomorrow, I made my way to the retirement home to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. The ground was slippery with frost and I took my time getting there, just to be safe. I was clumsy at the best of times; I didn't need to add fuel to the fire.

Stepping into the staff room I instantly felt a different energy than usual. Jacob was standing talking quietly with the Staff Nurse, Leah, and they both looked pointedly in my direction as I walked in. It was a little unnerving. I quickly took off my coat and scarf and hung them up, before timidly speaking.

"Is everything alright?"

Jacob softened his expression and took a few steps towards me. "It's Mrs. Cullen."

I felt my stomach drop and closed the rest of the distance between Jake and I. "Oh, God, is she okay? Is she–"

"She's fine, Bella," he interrupted in a soothing voice, placing his hand on my arm. I closed my eyes as a wave of relief washed over me. "She's just… she's very upset today," he continued. "She wouldn't eat anything this morning and she won't let any of the carers near her. She's been looking through a photo album for the last two hours." Jacob let go of my arm and sighed wearily, obviously conflicted as to how to deal with this.

"We were hoping maybe you could talk to her. Try and calm her down, see what's wrong?" Leah piped up for the first time, leaning against the bench behind her and folding her arms across her chest. "She is very fond of you," she added as an afterthought, smiling softly.

I took a moment to digest everything I had been told, before a fresh wave of worry took me over. What could have caused such a drastic change in Esme? I ran a hand through my hair and nodded.

"Of course I'll talk to her," I said fervently.

Walking into the main living area for the residents, my eyes were immediately drawn to Esme. She was sitting in her usual chair in the far corner – the perfect spot to keep an eye on everything. Today, however, all she seemed to be interested in was the photo album that was sitting open in her lap. I made my way over to her and paused for a moment before sitting in the seat beside her, waiting for her to tell me to go away. But she didn't. She didn't even seem to register my presence until I cleared my throat and addressed her directly.

"Esme?" I coaxed, resting my hand on her arm. Finally she turned her head in my direction and gave me a sad smile. It was heart breaking, but at least she wasn't telling me to get away from her. Slowly she reached up and touched her soft, wrinkled hand to my face, her bright green eyes searching my own.

"You're not her, are you?" She asked, in a way that suggested she already knew the answer. "You're not my Rose."

Right there and then I understood what had brought about the sudden change in Esme. She was lucid; more so than I had ever seen her before. She was remembering things she never usually could, which explained the photo album – she wanted proof of the images and flashes of a forgotten life she saw in her head.

"No," I finally replied in a raspy voice, shaking my head. "No, I'm not. My name is Bella." Esme stared blankly at me for a moment and I realised she hadn't heard me. "My name is Bella!" I said, louder.

"Bella," the old woman repeated slowly, as if for the first time. Come to think of it, it may have been. "My friend, Bella."

I felt that lump in my throat again at her words and her declaration of me as a friend. It filled me with joy that our companionship meant as much to her as it did to me.

Esme dropped her hand from my cheek and turned her attention back to the album before her. Looking at it properly for the first time I saw black and white photographs, yellowing slightly with age, staring back up at me. Every picture had been arranged with great care and attention, with annotation written under each one. _Carlisle and Esme's wedding, May 1939_ was written beneath a photograph of a very young and elated looking Esme with her new husband. Another photo of the two of them standing alongside another man was placed above the description, _Carlisle, Esme and Edward, New York City, March 1940_.

The one that really caught my eye, though, was of a young mother with a baby cradled in her arms. _Esme and Rose, April 1941_.

"Rose," I whispered, without realising it. Esme smiled at me sadly again and turned over the page.

_Alice and Edward with Rose, 1941_; _Jasper and Rose, 1944_; _Carlisle and Emmett with Rose, 1948_…

Page after page was turned, following the life of Rose; following every birthday and every family gathering. With every photograph, Esme got just a little bit more upset and by the time we had reached the last one – Rose's high school graduation – her tears had spilled over. I stood immediately and draped my arm across her shoulders, trying to provide any comfort I could.

"She was your daughter," I said right by her ear, wanting confirmation and deliberately using the past tense.

"I lost her," was Esme's only reply, the pain in her voice telling me it was as fresh in her mind now as it was when it happened. "It was a long time ago."

Esme had endured every mother's worst nightmare: losing a child. The fact that there didn't seem to be any photographs of Rose after the age of eighteen told me that she probably died not too long after that. There were so many questions I wanted to ask Esme about her, about their life together, but I decided against it. She was already incredibly upset and vulnerable and I certainly wasn't going to do anything to make it worse. Instead, I simply stayed there with my arm around her shoulders, looking down at a beautiful young woman at her high school graduation.

Rose looked very like Esme: the shape of the face, the curve of the eyebrow, the smile, and most of all, the sparkle in the eye. It was all so similar. She seemed to inherit her father's proud, almost regal, stature, though, as she stood a head taller than her mother. There was no denying I was looking at a picture of a happy family.

Esme seemed calmer so I moved away from her and back into my chair. I caught sight of Jacob in my peripheral vision and I glanced at him momentarily. He gave me a nod and a small smile before disappearing again.

"You come here to see me every day, don't you?" Esme asked suddenly, drawing my attention back to her. "Or… nearly every day…" she corrected herself, her face contorting in frustration that she couldn't quite remember.

"I do," I answered quickly, taking her hand to reassure her. "It's usually the best part of my day," I confessed, giving her a genuine smile which she returned with equal fervour.

"And you'll… you'll keep coming?" Her face dropped slightly, anxiety replacing her happiness.

It was clear that I had become something constant in Esme's life. She may not have known exactly who I was a lot of the time but she knew enough to realise that I was always there with her. It was for that reason that I would continue to come and see her, even though I knew the next time I saw her I would be her little Rose again, this day having been forgotten.

"Of course I will, Esme," I promised, squeezing her hand. "Of course I will."

* * *

My plans for the rest of the day took a U-turn. Instead of going home, wrapping presents and watching bad television, I went to the library. I couldn't curb my curiosity about Rose Cullen and how and why she died. Asking Esme was out of the question so my only other option was public records. I sat in the virtually deserted library for hours searching and searching for anything that could help me unravel the mystery.

Her name appeared as 'Rosalie Lillian Cullen' in the 1950 census, alongside Esme and Carlisle, as a nine year old child, which told me she must have been born in 1941, here in New York. I even found reference to an 'Edward Anthony Masen Cullen' who seemed to be her uncle and a brother of Carlisle's. Other than that, I was struggling to find any information on her. The thing I was most interested in was a death certificate and I couldn't find one anywhere.

Falling back against the uncomfortable wooden chair, I sighed in exhaustion and felt disheartened. I was so sure I would be able to track her down.

"Is there something I can help you with?" A voice said from behind me, causing me jump in my seat. I swung my head round and came face to face with a girl who obviously worked at the library, judging by the name tag that was pinned to her chest.

"Oh, um," I stuttered, still startled by her sudden presence. "I was just trying to track down someone who passed away a long time ago but I'm not having much luck."

The girl, Angela, pushed her glasses a bit further up her nose and thought for a moment. She had obviously been keeping an eye on me the whole time I had been there so she knew the detective routes I had already used. "Well," she began. "It can be tedious when you don't know exactly what you're looking for, but you could always try the microfiche reader. You'd be surprised the things you find in old newspaper articles."

_Of course! Why didn't I think of that?_

Angela offered to show me how to use it properly and I gratefully accepted. Before I knew it, I was flying through the decades like a pro. I decided to start my search during the summer of 1959. Judging by her date of birth, that's when Rose would most likely have graduated from high school and that was the last photographic evidence I saw of her alive.

Just as Angela had inferred, I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for and because of that, I once again became disheartened by the time I got to October, 1959. The fast motion of the microfiche machine made me feel queasy by the time I got to November, and by the start of December I had a headache. _This is hopeless…_

I was leaning one elbow on the table with my head cradled in my hand, mindlessly flipping from day to day, contemplating just giving up and going home, when a headline made my heart stop in my chest.

_**LOCAL TEEN BRUTALLY MURDERED ON CHRISTMAS EVE.**_

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the picture that was printed underneath – a picture of a smiling, young woman with long, light coloured hair and uncommonly kind eyes that looked so familiar. It was Rose Cullen. I instantly straightened up in my chair and read on:

"_The Monroe County Sheriff's Office is appealing for witnesses after Rochester teenager, Rosalie Cullen, 18, was found brutally raped and murdered on the night of December 24__th__ at approximately 8:40pm. It is understood that Miss Cullen was returning home from visiting a friend when she was attacked. Police are particularly anxious to speak with one Mr. Royce King, 22, who is understood to have been in a relationship with the deceased._

"_Miss Cullen, a recent high school graduate, was the only daughter of the respected Doctor Carlisle Cullen, who is said to be devastated by the loss…_"

The rest of the article seemed to focus more on Carlisle's many triumphs in the field of medicine than it did on his deceased daughter, which led me to believe that the Cullen family were once very influential.

I sat there, open mouthed, trying to make sense of what I had just read. I never thought for one minute that Rose had died under such tragic and horrific circumstances. No wonder Esme was so upset today when she suddenly remembered such a terrible episode in her life.

I couldn't stop now; there had to be more information about Rose. A crime like that isn't just swept under the carpet after one newspaper article.

Tucking my chair in as close the microfiche machine as possible, I swept through every page of every newspaper for the following week and headline after headline pertaining to Rose's death just kept coming.

_**LOCAL TEEN'S UNCLE QUESTIONED OVER HER MURDER.**_

_**TEEN'S UNCLE RELEASED WITHOUT CHARGE.**_

_**ROCHESTER BUSINESSMAN ARRESTED ON SUSPICION OF MURDERING TEEN.**_

Just when I thought the circumstances surrounding Rose's death couldn't get any worse, I read the headline:

_**TEEN'S BODY DISAPPEARS FROM COUNTY MORGUE**_**.**

I don't think I had ever read a more disturbing sentence my whole life but I forced myself to read the article that followed:

"_It has been confirmed that the body of local teenager, Rosalie Cullen, who was found brutally murdered four days ago, has disappeared from Monroe County Morgue. Police suspect body snatchers, but are baffled as to how the person or persons unknown even got into the building. There were no signs of forced entry into the morgue itself, and the only indication of a break-in was a smashed window on the second floor – which is used for administrative purposes only._

"_What makes this incident even stranger is that said window appears to have been broken from the inside out, not from the outside in, leading to rumours that there is police involvement in the theft of the girl's body…_"

This was getting more and more heinous the further I delved into it. What kind of a sick bastard steals a dead body from a morgue?

I continued to trawl through stories until, slowly, the headlines about Rose vanished from the newspapers. There was no mention of her again until the first week of February, 1960:

_**MEMORIAL FOR MURDERED TEEN.**_

"_A memorial has been erected in Mount Hope Cemetery, Rochester, in memory of murdered teenager, Rosalie Cullen._

"_Miss Cullen's body disappeared from the county morgue on December 28__th__, four days after she was found dead. Despite widespread searches, the teen's body was never found…_"

I didn't need to read anymore; the two remaining questions I had were just answered. Snatching my coat and scarf from the back of the chair I began hurrying out of the library.

"Hey, wait!" I heard the librarian call, as I rushed past her. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes," I answered with a smile, slowing down momentarily. "Thank you for your help. Oh, and, Merry Christmas!" I shouted over my shoulder, before stepping out into the crisp, evening air, towards my truck.

* * *

It felt more like Halloween than Christmas as I traipsed through Mount Hope Cemetery in the freezing cold. It took about forty minutes to drive there from the library and by the time I arrived it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening. I don't know why I felt the need to drive all the way out here on Christmas Eve; it just felt right. It was her anniversary, after all, and if Esme couldn't be here to wish Rose a Merry Christmas, then I would. I wondered, fleetingly, if Esme would even be here if circumstances were different. Did Esme and Carlisle ever come here, or was it too painful? If they did, did they come on Christmas Eve?

There were lights illuminating the many paths in the grave yard as I tried to find Rose's memorial. They may have stopped me from tripping over my own feet but they did little to aid my quest. Sharp, ominous shadows were cast all around and it made me feel like someone was walking alongside me – so much so that I stopped to double check several times.

I found myself towards the back of the cemetery where the slightly older graves were, hoping that the memorial would be in the same general vicinity, but there was no sign of Rose. Tilting my head back and groaning in annoyance, I was about to give up when I glanced to my right and saw a mighty oak tree with a single statue placed beneath it. Curious, I made my way over to it and when I got near enough I realised it was a statue of an angel. It wasn't until I was right up close that I noticed the plaque at the bottom:

**IN MEMORY OF**

**ROSALIE LILLIAN CULLEN**

**1941 – 1959**

**MAY SHE LIVE ON IN OUR HEARTS FOREVER**

It was simple. It was understated. It was perfect and it took my breath away for the briefest moment. Simply reading about what happened made it nothing more than a story, but seeing her name on the memorial suddenly made it all painfully real.

I knelt down and traced her name with my gloved finger. If Rose were alive today she would be seventy-two years old with a family of her own, most likely. Esme wouldn't be alone. Before I could stop them, I felt tears boil over, only to freeze on my cheeks as they fell. I didn't know why I was crying; was it for Esme? Was it for Rose? Maybe it was for me and this was just a good outlet.

"Merry Christmas, Rose," I whispered, my breath misting in front of me. "You haven't been forgotten."

* * *

I had been in and out of sleep for the past few hours and I had reached the stage where trying to sleep was exhausting me. Turning my head towards the clock on the bedside table told me it was 2:23am and I threw my arm over my face, yawning widely. A dull noise from my living room didn't bother me too much – I chalked it up to an over-tired imagination. _Maybe it's Santa Claus_, I thought, chuckling to myself.

Just as I was drifting off again, a slightly louder noise came from my living room that made my eyes snap open. _That wasn't my over-tired imagination; there is someone in my apartment._

With my heart hammering in my chest, I threw the covers off myself and groped blindly for the baseball bat I kept down the side of my bed, eventually feeling the smooth wood in my hand. I padded silently to the door of my bedroom and listened intently, waiting for the intruder to make another noise, but all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing. I tightened my already vice-like grip on the bat and slowly tip-toed across the hall to the closed door of the living room, before pausing to gather my courage.

_On the count of three_, I told myself. _One… two… three!_

I flung the door open and found myself in an empty room. Frowning, I kept my bat poised, ready to attack, as I slowly checked every conceivable hiding place, but finding nothing out of the ordinary. I released a breath I didn't know I was holding and let the bat fall limply by my side. _Thank God. I was so sure I had heard something, though…_

"It's about time you got up; I've been making noise out here for the last twenty minutes," a silky smooth voice sounded from behind me.

"_JESUS!_" I exclaimed in fright, swinging round to face my intruder but only managing to stumble backwards and fall hard on my rear end, the baseball bat clattering onto the floor. I managed to catch a glimpse of long, white-blonde hair before I shuffled backwards and scurried behind the couch. I sat there on the ground, facing the wall, breathing heavily with my eyes as wide as saucers. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. There _was_ someone in my home – a young woman.

I didn't know what to do. Should I call the police? Should I make a run for it? Should I try to reason with her? None of those scenarios were appealing to me because they all involved me coming out from behind the couch.

"For goodness sake, will you come out of there? I'm not going to hurt you," my uninvited guest barked out, sounding surprisingly impatient and irritated. If anyone had the right to feel irritated, it was me. This had to be the strangest break-in in history.

Feeling marginally less afraid, and inexplicably curious, I slowly rose from my sitting position and stood to face the girl, still with the barrier of the couch between us. The second my eyes focused on her face and took in her tall, elegant gait, I knew exactly who she was. It was beyond the realms of possibility, but she was here.

"Holy shit," I breathed out, open-mouthed.

"It's Rosalie Cullen, actually," the blonde said, sarcastically. "But, then again, you already know that, don't you?" She finished, her tone sounding sharper.

I stood gaping in horror, gripping the back of the couch and staring at a teenage girl who had been dead for fifty-four years. If by some miracle she hadn't actually been killed all those years ago, she still would have aged. She would be an old woman with liver spots and a blue rinse. The girl standing in front of me looked _exactly_ the same as she did in the photographs I had seen of her. Well, more or less…

"This isn't happening; this has to be a dream," I declared, shaking my head in disbelief. "You're not real."

To my surprise, Rose actually laughed, but it sounded bitter and hollow. "I assure you, I am perfectly real."

"But you… y-you're dead," I stammered out, knowing it to be fact but still sounding unsure. An almost predatory smirk appeared on Rosalie's face.

"In a manner of speaking," she responded, ominously.

The blonde was standing as still as a statue and I was fairly certain she hadn't blinked the whole time I had been facing her. People simply didn't act like that. I was sure she wasn't flesh and blood – it just wasn't possible – but she was still here, in some form.

_She is dead. But she is here, standing in front of me. Talking to me…_

"You're a ghost," I declared, feeling like I suddenly understood everything. There was no other explanation.

Rose raised a perfect eyebrow at me, a look of mild confusion on her face. "Do I look like a ghost?" The tone of her voice was probing and for the first time she seemed genuinely interested in conversing with me.

I took a moment to look her up and down. I had never seen a ghost but from what I understood, there was more to them than just jumping out of dark corners yelling, '_boo!'_

Rose's skin was the palest white I had ever seen and her hair seemed to shine as brightly as the sun. Her eyes were the strangest colour of amber and her overall beauty was incomparable. In seeing photographs of Rose there was no denying her splendour, but witnessing her standing before me was something different altogether. It was as if her beauty radiated from her in waves. To me, it was most definitely ethereal.

"Yeah, kinda," was my lame vocalisation of something my brain couldn't quite figure out. I could have sworn I saw a smile pull at the corner of her lips but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

"You're even more idiotic up close than you are from afar," Rose said, shaking her head, seemingly oblivious to the offense her statement could cause. I frowned with a mixture of confusion and indignation. I crossed my arms over my chest and was ready to retaliate when the implications of her words suddenly hit me.

"From afar?" I repeated, slowly. "You've been watching me?" I knew the thought of that should have frightened me, but it didn't.

"Yes," the blonde replied, curtly and matter-of-factly.

"Oh," I responded, dumbly. "…Why?"

Rosalie's mouth formed a tight line. "You're asking the wrong questions!" She snarled at me. "You're lucky I have been watching you, Isabella." The blonde moved for the first time since I had popped up from behind the couch, pacing back in forth in apparent frustration. The fact that she had addressed me as, 'Isabella,' wasn't lost on me, either. "You have been out after dark by yourself twice in as many days," she reminded. "Walking around a cemetery by yourself…" This was mumbled more to herself than to me and she shook her head at me as if I were a troublesome child. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Ladies don't go out alone at night!"

Her sudden outburst left me feeling startled and once again my eyes went wide. She really had been watching me. Earlier on when I thought there was someone with me in the cemetery, there had been. And the night before when I thought someone was behind me as I walked home from work – that was Rosalie, too.

"I… I…"

"You have a complete disregard for your own safety," she accused, cutting me off before I could say anything intelligible. "Do you have any idea how stressful that is for me?" Rose was staring right at me with those terrifying, amber coloured eyes and I couldn't tear my gaze away from them. "A little common sense is all I ask."

Although Rose had the appearance of a girl years younger than me, I felt like I was being told off by my grandmother. I felt heat spread across my cheeks while the blonde simply continued to pierce me with her icy glare.

I didn't understand why she was here; why she had appeared to me. Had I done something to anger her spirit? Was she annoyed that I had found out her story? That may have been part of it but she had obviously been watching me long before today. She said I was asking the wrong questions but the only question I had, she didn't seem to want to answer.

I swallowed hard and tentatively crept out from behind the couch, never taking my eyes off Rose, fearing she might disappear if I did. I still kept my distance, though, leaving a good six feet between us.

"Why are you watching me?" I asked. That's all I wanted to know. The blonde once again raised an eyebrow at me and surveyed me for a moment, tilting her head to the side. I felt like I was on display in a museum; like I was being studied and wondered about.

Rosalie then looked past me to a stack of shelves and all but glided over to them. I heard high heeled shoes clack across my floor and it was only at that moment I noticed how she was dressed: skin-tight jeans, black blouse, grey fitted blazer… she didn't look like she had just walked out of the 1950s; she was more up to date with her fashion than I was. Those shoes alone probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together. _Who knew ghosts were so fashionable?_

The blonde was looking at a photograph of my father and me, taken on the day I had graduated from college. It was one of the few pictures that existed of me and my dad together, since we were both rather camera shy.

"My mother is going to die soon," Rose said abruptly, turning to face me again and jolting me from my thoughts. As much as I wanted to protest, I couldn't. Esme was ninety-three years old, after all. "There are days when she doesn't even remember her own name, but she always remembers you." I frowned. _Does Rose not understand what is wrong with her mother?_ "Because when she looks at you, all she sees is me," she finished, looking truly stricken.

I cast my mind back over the time I had spent with Esme. She had called me, 'Rose,' from the very first day I met her and, more than that, she had been affectionate with me from the start. Almost like she felt she had known me her whole life. My mind then replayed something Esme said to me that morning: '_You're not her, are you? You're not my Rose_.' In her lucidity, she had been harshly dragged back into a world where her daughter was no longer with her but, in me, she had the next best thing.

"You can be there for her in a way I can't. For that, I will be eternally grateful." As Rose spoke this time, I could only detect sincerity in her tone. "At this stage of her existence, you have made sure my mother has a _life_; the least I can do is look out for yours."

She watched over me, she scolded me for my naivety and she advised me how to live a better life. I was convinced that Rosalie Cullen was my Guardian Angel.

I gazed at the blonde in front of me and could think of nothing better to say than: "Thank you."

There was a loud huffing noise and once again Rose's mouth formed a tight line. "You can thank me by being more vigilant," she countered, sounding suddenly harsh again. "You make my job very difficult." I dropped my head and focused my attention on my sock clad feet.

Thinking about it, Rosalie being so stern about vigilance, common sense and being out late wasn't surprising, considering how she died. Perhaps I _was_ being too flippant about certain aspects of my life.

"You should spend as much time with him as you can, you know," the blonde said, drawing my attention back to her. She had returned her gaze to the photograph on my shelf and continued to stare at it while she spoke. "Before you know it, they're gone." Rose sounded distant, as if she was deep in thought.

Up to that point I had only thought about how hard all this was on Esme and Carlisle, but clearly Rosalie hadn't passed over to where she was supposed to be and her heartache was surely as unyielding as theirs was. She was stuck in a plain of existence where she didn't belong and she was alone. An orphan.

The blonde turned to look at me again with no discernible expression on her face, but her eyes seemed to have changed colour. They looked darker somehow. I don't know why but I had to look away, instead training my gaze on the discarded baseball bat, which still lay on the floor. Thinking of everything Rosalie had said, I suddenly thought of another question I wanted an answer to.

"Hey, do you know who killed–" I began, only to cut myself off when I saw that Rose wasn't standing in front of me anymore. She wasn't anywhere, in fact. "Hello?" I already knew I wouldn't get a response before I spoke but it was a reflex. I knew Rose was gone.

I flopped down onto the couch and exhaled audibly. _Did all that actually happen?_ I pinched my arm, just to make doubly sure I hadn't dreamt the whole thing. _Yeah, I'm definitely still awake. _

My mind was buzzing with thoughts of Rose and Esme and my mind wandered into a land where they were still together as mother and daughter. I thought sleep would evade me but I did eventually fall asleep, waking up several hours later with a crick in my neck.

I groaned and stretched out my stiff muscles before I remembered that it was Christmas Day. I smiled at the thought of spending the day with my father and was about to start getting ready when I noticed a small, red box sitting in the middle of my coffee table.

Frowning, I simply stared at it for a moment. I didn't recognise it as one of my own and it also hadn't been sitting there last night. I leant forward slowly and gently lifted the box into my lap, as if it would explode at any moment. Slipping the lid off, I was stunned to see a brand new, top of the range iPod nestled inside. It was better than my old one and I knew for a fact it was incredibly expensive. My jaw dropped and I actually burst out laughing in my disbelief. I shook myself out of my daze and looked for a card.

Lying folded at the bottom of the box was, what appeared to be, a newspaper article. I carefully lifted it out and didn't need to unfold it to tell it was old; the paper was worn and discoloured. When I did unfold it, something fell out and I managed to catch it before it hit the floor. It was a note:

"Yes, I know who did it."

That's all it said. I turned it over in my hands, trying to find some other hidden text, but there was nothing. It was written in very elegant, old fashioned handwriting and I felt a sudden weight in my stomach. _This couldn't possibly be from who I think it's from…?_

With trembling fingers I turned my attention back to the torn out newspaper article:

_**LOCAL BANKER FOUND DEAD IN UNEXPLAINED CIRCUMSTANCES.**_

"_Rochester police are scrambling to find answers after local businessman, Royce King, 24, was found horrifically tortured and beaten to death in his own home. Mr. King was found laid out in an upstairs bedroom with both the door and window locked from the inside._

"_Mr. King was arrested just over a year ago on suspicion of killing Rochester teenager, Rosalie Cullen, but was never convicted of the crime due to lack of evidence. It is thought that someone who still believed Mr. King to be guilty of the murder could be behind his demise, although exactly how remains a mystery.._."

Royce King. That's who killed her. I remember reading his name when I was at the library; he had allegedly been in a relationship with Rose at the time she was murdered.

How did Rose get this newspaper article? It had been written long after she died. Ghosts don't read the newspaper. Or write notes, or buy goddamn iPods as Christmas presents. The truth hit me like a slap to the face and the scrap of newspaper fell from between my fingers. Rosalie Cullen wasn't a ghost or my Guardian Angel, she was something else entirely. Something I didn't understand.

_Who or what did I have a conversation with last night?_

I heard an obnoxious buzzing noise coming from the alarm clock in my bedroom and it shook me from my thoughts. That meant it was eight-thirty and I really needed to get ready; I had to be at my dad's by ten o'clock. I picked the paper up off the floor, folded it carefully and put it back into the box, placing the iPod on top of it again. I moved the little red box back onto the coffee table in the same position I found it and made my way to the bathroom.

I felt better after cleansing myself of the previous day in the shower and after some thinking, I began packing my overnight bag. My father had asked me to stay the night at his house but I declined, maintaining that I didn't mind driving home alone in the dark. I had changed my mind, though, deciding to take him up on his offer.

After all, ladies don't go out alone at night.

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed :) reviews are always welcome.**


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